


courante

by flirtygaybrit



Category: Actor RPF, DC Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Barebacking, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, the one where henry's facial hair gets the appreciation it deserves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 16:03:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6812437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You realize we’re alone now,” Henry murmurs as he cards his fingers through Ben's hair, a hint of something more plaintive than playful in his tone. It registers immediately, and Ben knows that they'll need talk about it later (the way they always do, the way they're always talking, always reevaluating, always trying to minimize the shadow of suspicion), but this time Henry's right, and this time Henry's not just a voice in his ear on a lonely night in Los Angeles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	courante

The feeling doesn’t fully register with Ben until he’s sprawled out in Henry’s bed, socks already peeled off and jacket discarded in the entryway, his head tilted back while Henry rubs slow circles into his scalp. It isn’t even jet lag that hits him, although there’s a healthy dose of that mixed in there too, but Ben pauses mid-conversation to reach up with one hand, knuckles brushing lightly over Henry’s lips as if he's seeing him for the first time. 

“I like this,” Ben says, eyes fixed on the shadow of Henry’s beard beneath his jaw. Henry had been clean-shaven when he’d left America and Ben has really only seen a few pictures of him since, watching from afar as Henry’s stubble lengthened into something more tantalizingly masculine over the course of the month. It makes him look older, more dignified, almost kingly. “I think you should keep it this time.”

“I’d love to,” Henry admits. He's always been a good sport about letting himself be touched, and he tilts into it this time like a pampered cat, encouraging Ben's fingers to explore the sharp curve of his jaw. “The new face of Superman, maybe? A tasteful bit of facial hair?”

They both know it’s no more than wishful thinking. The first movie had delivered the world almost a little too much of Henry’s uncanny shag rug impersonation, and it's not likely that Zack will ever accept the idea of a bearded Superman simply because Ben has taken to rubbing every exposed part of his body against Henry's face when he's presented with the opportunity. He’d noticed Henry's things spread out in the bathroom earlier, a gentleman’s repertoire of steel and brush and foam waiting to be used, like Robespierre’s guillotine. His own razor is packed away in his suitcase, still at the hotel he's meant to be staying at overnight, waiting for the day Ben has to shed his own beard. 

“Mm,” Ben agrees, trailing his fingertips this time over Henry's throat, the slow bob of Henry’s Adam’s apple obvious under his fingers. Henry’s eyes are half-closed, heavy-lidded with his gaze cast downward, his pupils dark as they track Ben's face. Normally it takes a little more than a brush of fingers to glaze over his expression like this, but that's what time and distance tends to do to virile young men, and even greying ones like Ben; a desert can live without the rain, but the wet season is when it really comes alive. 

“You realize we’re alone now,” Henry murmurs as he cards his fingers through Ben's hair, a hint of something more plaintive than playful in his tone. It registers immediately, and Ben knows that they'll need talk about it later (the way they always do, the way they're always talking, always reevaluating, always trying to minimize the shadow of suspicion), but this time Henry's right, and this time Henry's not just a voice in his ear on a lonely night in Los Angeles.

At first, Ben tries to rein in his enthusiasm, but his patience and sense of self-preservation unravel quickly once he’s twisted around and pressing Henry into the bed with his body weight. He holds onto Henry like he might turn into a mist and dissipate into thin air, though Ben thinks he would soak himself in that too, if he could. He tries to kiss Henry the way he deserves to be kissed after weeks of little more than the occasional phone call, biting into his mouth, tongue curling against Henry's as if he might be able to write letters of regret for the way things have to be between them. He finds this more effective than murmured apologies, anyway, because intent never seems to be quite as effective as action does, and in the end Ben lets Henry pull him down for a better kiss, a firmer one that says _I need you_ and _don't be sorry, asshole, just show me you missed me_ in equal parts. 

Henry’s fingers wind in his hair and Ben’s own fingers splay possessively over the warm skin beneath Henry’s shirt, pulling the heat of Henry's body into his palms, his fingers curled desperately in the fabric, and this time it's a promise, Henry's tongue in his mouth and teeth scraping against his lip and a low whine in the air between them that might have come from either of them, or both of them at once. 

Ben tries to hold back, but for all that Henry always seems to be that much better at coaxing things out of him. Ben has never known anybody to get under his skin like this, yet Henry draws wells of desperation every time his nails drag across Ben's flesh. He wants to tell Henry to bleed him dry, wants to feel his ribs crack open beneath Henry's hands, wants Henry to fuck him until he shivers to ruin above him, below him, all around him. 

“I missed you,” he breathes against the corner of Henry's lips, raw honesty stinging the corners of his eyes, and Henry licks the sentiment right out of his mouth, greedy and eager to swallow things so truthful that they should hurt, a wilted flower soaking up acid rain. “Fuck, I thought about you every night, every _fucking_ night in L.A., I couldn't stop —”

Henry's fingers tighten in his hair, the sting so sharp and so good that Ben hisses against his mouth and tries to grind his cock down against Henry's thigh, already stiffening in his boxers. Henry laughs before rolling them effortlessly, his strength providing an unfair advantage as he pins Ben's wrists next to his head, his thighs keeping Ben's hips flat on the mattress; he rolls his hips once, rocking against Ben in a perfect imitation of something that they haven’t done since New York, and Ben moans without shame, struggling to arch his body into Henry's solid weight. He can't help but wonder if dying like this would be such a bad thing, if somebody somewhere would forgive him for how badly he wants Henry to be inside him, holding him down, making him beg to be taken and beg for more once he's been taken. 

“I want you to tell me,” Henry says, his breath hot on Ben's tongue, mouth so close that Ben kisses him again because he doesn't have the words for it yet. Henry pulls back after a moment, his lips sucked-on red, and growls, “Tell me what you thought about and then show me.”

Of course Henry wants to hear it first. He always needs it spelled out for him in clear terms, signed and delivered with a wax seal and a ribbon because the uncertainty is what always holds him back. Ben hasn't yet found a reliable way of informing him that he would rather starve, drown, and burn to death all at once before letting Henry go, and so they have this, _tell me_ and _show me_ , and this has to be good enough to bridge the gap between how they feel and how well they can articulate it.

Unsurprisingly, Ben has no lack of things to say about it now; it's so much easier to talk about wanting Henry's tongue buried so deep in him that he wants to come on the spot than it is to talk about how he wants to wake up to Henry's terrible receding hairline every goddamn day of his life and how he wants to send his kids off to school while Henry watches from the kitchen window with a proud smile and a mug of strong coffee in his hand that Ben can suck out of his mouth once they're alone. There's a time and place for that conversation that isn't here or now, but Ben tries to inject it into every syllable anyway, as extra incentive.

“I wanted you to suck your come out when you were done,” he gasps, breathless because Henry's teeth are buried in the highest part of his throat, leaving red marks under his jaw that won't be visible until he shaves. It's unclear exactly how long he’s been talking for, since all he knows is that Henry's clothed cock has been dragging against his in the most agonizing way for as long as he can remember. Henry makes a shuddering sound of approval, the coarse hair on his jaw rough like Velcro as he rubs himself against Ben’s neck; Ben can feel his eyes rolling back as he closes them, his attempts at thrusting up against Henry's body still frustratingly ineffective. “I wanted to feel you moan when — fuck, when you tasted it, I wanted you to kiss me after —”

He blinks his eyes open as Henry rears back, mouth partway open, the blue and brown of his irises a thin ring around his pupils. Ben's seen that look before, the slack-jawed and glazed-over expression of want, hunger. It makes him want to let Henry swallow him whole, a willing sacrifice to his most primal instincts. 

“Shut up,” Henry says, dropping onto his elbows, the hard lines of his body pressing into Ben's as he tries to flatten himself out along the length of Ben's body. He kisses him hard, and Ben curls his arms around Henry's waist, squeezing with everything that he has until Henry's breath is shaky and he whispers between kisses, “Shut the fuck up, you're absolutely filthy. Fuck, the things I want to do…”

“Show me,” Ben breathes against his mouth, as habitual as it is flirtatious. College-age fumbling and adrenaline-fueled promises only take them so far, and for Christ’s sake, they're both still _fully clothed_. “And take your fuckin’ clothes off, too.”

For that comment, he suffers. Usually he suffers for mostly everything that he wants to do to Henry, but he suffers especially for his eagerness now, which makes it all the more unfair. Henry doesn't remove so much as a sock, and somehow Ben ends up face-first in the mattress with his hips shoved up and Henry's tongue rubbing hot and slick over his hole, saliva dribbling slowly down to the crease of his thigh while Henry licks him open. Ben would rub himself against the bed if he didn't think he would come immediately, so he swears colourfully into a pillow instead, inhaling the scent of Henry in the fabric, rocking his hips back against the steady thrust of Henry's tongue. 

Henry, more than gifted with that clever tongue of his, sucks and licks and moans like he's being paid to do it — hell, Ben would pay generously for treatment like this — and rubs his beard against the soft flesh of Ben's inner thighs until his skin is burning and he's sure that he's about to collapse; then Henry backs off, panting, rubbing the pad of his thumb first around Ben's hole before pressing very carefully inside. 

Ben shakes through it. He makes undignified noises while his body yields to Henry's touch, and Henry seems to sense his desperation as he presses just past the first knuckle, pausing there to let Ben clench around him and try to steady his breathing. If Henry is a wilted flower, he must be something far less beautiful and far needier — a cracked riverbed, desert soil that hasn't seen water in months, something that doesn't live until the summer rains bring out the worms and the beetles and the green vegetation. 

Luckily, Henry doesn't stay still for long, seemingly aware that Ben is balanced on a knife edge and unwilling to push him over so soon. He withdraws his hands and sits back on his knees, leaving Ben to collapse onto the bed while he undresses, and Ben is grateful for the brief period in which he can wrestle his arousal into submission, or at least mould it into something more manageable for at least another few minutes. 

“Condom?” Henry asks, somewhere behind Ben and to his left. Ben turns his head, getting a fantastic eyeful of Henry's bare ass while he’s bent over and digging in Ben's overnight bag, and rests his chin on his arms. 

“None,” he says, and he almost laughs when Henry glances back at him, eyebrows raised comically high and his hard cock hanging between his legs. Ben wishes his phone were closer. Moments like these are precious. Precious moments deserve to be kept close, and maybe even set as a wallpaper. 

“Really? Didn’t you bring…?” Henry pauses, forehead creased in thought. He glances suspiciously at the bag, returns to rummaging through it like he’s searching for hidden treasure, and looks back at Ben again, handsome face screwed up in confusion. “You do have…”

“I know,” Ben says. He'd brought many condoms, in fact, along with a few other necessities. It’s far more than they’ll need to last the night, and he plans to take full advantage of Henry’s London home when he returns from his trip.

Henry blinks at him. “Oh,” he says a moment later, the pieces falling into place at last. “So you… did you mean you really wanted to try all of that, what you said?”

“Just some of it,” Ben lies, although he absolutely meant all of it, beacon of sin that he's become. He hasn’t tried it before with a man and they’ve never really thoroughly discussed any sort of sex without protection, but it can’t be all that bad if women manage to live through it without getting pregnant or worse. Besides, he doesn’t think that he could deny getting off to it on at least a semi-regular basis over the last couple of months. Minds start to wander in solitude, and Ben’s mind seems to find every available road on the map a suitable one if it leads to Henry at the end.

Henry is still giving him that look, and as badly as Ben wants Henry's eyes on him, he doesn't think spending the rest of the evening short-circuiting over condom use is the best way to spend their time. “I mean, wear one if you want. I’ll come either way.”

For a moment Henry seems to contemplate it, and Ben closes his eyes and rests his face on his forearms because he doesn’t want to spoil the surprise for himself, and also because casual conversation only does so much to stamp out the flames of passion; he needs to focus on something that doesn't involve trying to imagine feeling Henry come in him, and yet his plan fails spectacularly when Henry crawls back onto the bed, draping himself over Ben’s body and settling with a sigh. Ben grunts at him as politely as he dares, inhaling slowly as Henry nuzzles into the hair at the nape of his neck. Henry has a particular way of grounding people, and his weight is a comfortable one, the way a heavy blanket is soothing on a cold night. He lacks the soft, light femininity of a woman, the bulk of his muscle makes Ben sink into the mattress, and his cock is hard and pressed rather obviously against the small of Ben’s back.

Ben doesn’t think he’s ever been more at peace with himself.

“What did I do to deserve you?” Henry asks, the gentle lilt of his accent both wonderfully endearing and infuriatingly arousing all at once. 

“Well, you elevated the best jawline in the world into an art form with that thing,” Ben replies. Henry rubs his chin between Ben’s scapulae in response, nuzzling against him with his cheek; Ben’s cock twitches, and he tries to arch his hips enough to signal Henry to keep rubbing against him for as long as he can, hoping that the scratch of his beard keeps his skin red for days to come. If he could, he would wear beard burn like a declaration, would adorn his body with these marks as proof that he belongs to someone; he would wear Henry’s teeth marks like a collar around his neck, would display a bracelet of bruises sucked into his wrists, would show off the long red lines of Henry’s nails on his back like punitive lashes. All of it and more he would wear, and he knows that Henry would bear his marks the same way: with some measure of pride, and no small amount of adoration.

After a moment, Henry seems to get the hint. He begins to rock his hips slowly, knees braced on either side of Ben’s hips, cock smearing precome over the small of Ben’s back. In an attempt to be helpful, Ben spreads his thighs and attempts to will Henry to slide down a couple of inches with his mind. It seems to work to some small degree, and Henry does slip down, cock nestling comfortably between Ben's legs, but after a moment he curls his arms around Ben's waist and presses his face against Ben's spine with a quiet noise, eyelashes fluttering against Ben's skin.

“If you don't want to…” Ben trails off, immediately concerned. He tries to focus more on the soft exhale of air against his skin, the faint unsteadiness of Henry's breath, and the way Henry squeezes his arms tighter when Ben speaks. He’ll respect Henry's decision no matter how many times he's presented the opportunity to experience something he's only gotten off to in theory, and he knows Henry would do the same for him. It certainly won't be the end of the world if all they do is wrap themselves up in one another for the rest of the night.

Henry makes a quiet sound. “No, I definitely want to,” he says, pressing his lips to the spot he's just rubbed his face against. He does it again, scraping his beard over Ben's skin and soothing it with his tongue, and it feels so good that Ben would purr if he knew how. He rumbles quietly anyway, a noise of appreciation and a signal to continue speaking. “I just missed you. I needed this.” 

He tightens his arms around Ben's middle for emphasis. Ben swallows, squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and tries not to let himself shatter into a thousand pieces. 

“Okay,” Ben says once he’s gathered himself, “I think we can find a better way to do this. Lift up?” Henry obeys dutifully, holding himself up while Ben rolls onto his back until he can crawl forward between Ben's legs and settle against him properly; there he rests, chin tucked into the crook of his neck and Ben's palms running slowly over the firm curves of his back. The skin-to-skin contact is quite possibly the best thing Ben has ever felt in his life, and he’s felt a lot of good things.

“Love you, Jersey,” Ben murmurs, pressing a kiss to Henry's temple. He might have been hesitant to admit it, once, but here in the quiet, with Henry still hard against his hip and tension leaking out of his shoulders beneath his hands, Ben doesn’t feel even the least bit unsure. He knows now to acknowledge perfect things, knows now how to recognize diamond absolutes by the steady pace of a heartbeat.

Moments of quiet pass, and finally Henry lifts his head, crossing his forearms over Ben's chest so that he can rest his chin on them, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. So often they try to mute moments like these, try to downplay the things that bubble up from deep inside when they're together, helplessly afraid of ruining the moment by being happier than they believe they're allowed to be. Ben sees none of that now; Henry's eyes are brighter than ever, the mischief back in them, his confidence returned a hundredfold. 

“No condom, then,” Henry clarifies, while Ben slides his hands over his shoulders and through the mess of his hair. “If that's what you really want. But it’s gonna be gross.”

“I love gross,” Ben replies fondly. They’d tried this once before, months ago, though it had been interrupted before Ben’s fantasies could be fully realized. Henry had warned him about the associated unpleasantries then, but Ben has grown more wise about it after half a dozen trips to Google, and he’s pretty sure it can’t be that bad. If Henry can put his tongue and a liberal amount of saliva up there, it's not as if a little bit of semen will be a deal breaker. 

Henry just chuckles, shifting a bit to lean against Ben's palm, and Ben can feel that his hip is already damp where Henry's cock lies against it. He can’t help but wonder if it's a testament to youth or simply to Henry's insatiety that he's managed to stay completely hard through all of this. He nods with an air of finality, thumbing over Henry's lower lip, and swears quietly when Henry sucks his thumb into his mouth.

They manage to fumble their way through the preliminary activities somewhat more patiently this time, though with no less enthusiasm; Ben stays on his back, supported by pillows, and Henry spends several long and thorough minutes between Ben's thighs, working his way carefully into Ben until three of his fingers are twisting so slowly and deliberately that every brush of his knuckles feels like fire against Ben's insides. Ben tries to maintain eye contact when Henry isn't fixating on the way Ben's body opens for him, and fails spectacularly due to Henry's infuriating tendency to try to suck his cock when he does it.

“I just want to last, like, a minute once you get it in,” he grits out. Henry makes an amused noise and pulls off, offering a coy glance upward before he moves his mouth to Ben's hip instead. 

When Henry finally settles against him, the fronts of his thighs pressed flush against the backs of Ben’s own, Ben makes him go still. He's quite comfortable with his legs hooked around Henry's hips, too stubborn to hold his knees to his chest and too fond of the intimacy of this position to roll over and let Henry go deeper, and he wishes he could paint the walls with portraits of the intense look of concentration (or possibly agony) on Henry's face. 

Henry just drips sweat onto his chest, shifting his hips with impatient micro-movements that amplify in his body and make Ben’s own cock twitch in anticipation, completely unaware that he’s the most beautiful thing that Ben has ever seen in all the world and is probably objectively the most attractive man in the entire history of mankind.

“C’mere,” Ben mumbles, ignoring the obvious fact that Henry is as close as he can physically get without crawling inside him. He kisses Henry's forehead first, then nudges their noses together to kiss him properly, thankful for the thin sheen of sweat that lets his hands glide over the firm muscle of Henry's back; without it there would be friction, enough to stop his hands over the border of Henry’s scapulae, and he might be tempted to dig his nails into Henry's skin and write his name in half-moons.

Henry exhales slowly against his mouth, one hand palming lazily over Ben's chest while he angles his hips, trying to press deeper inside. Ben offers a quiet groan in response and tightens his legs around Henry's hips; the stretch of his cock is barely comfortable when Ben clenches around him, and yet all Ben wants is to pull him deeper, to take as much of Henry into himself as he can, to hold him so close that they become a single unit, a well-oiled machine, never one without the other. 

After a moment Henry mumbles something against his lips, and Ben relaxes his hold slowly, easing the pressure on both Henry and himself. “Say that again?”

“I said don't come yet,” Henry replies quietly, letting his forehead drop against Ben's chest.

Ben runs a hand through his hair, feeling where it's damp with sweat at the roots, and scratches lightly at the back of Henry's neck. He smiles at the shadows on the ceiling, closing his teeth lightly over the top of Henry’s ear as he considers the request. “Talkin’ to you, or me?”

Nosing against Ben’s chest hair, Henry laughs, a low, breathy sound. “Ben,” he murmurs, shy and fond and a little bit strained all at once. Almost immediately Ben is filled with a desire to suck his name out of Henry’s mouth and feed Henry’s own back to him, because if any name deserves to be spoken with such gentle reverence, it’s certainly not Ben’s.

“Mm, don’t worry, I’m right there too,” Ben says, still dragging his fingers through Henry's hair. “Just promise that if you come within… three? Five. Five thrusts,” he corrects, and he can feel Henry laughing against him, can feel the motion all the way down to where they're joined, can feel Henry’s smile pressed against his skin. “I’m trying to be generous, come on. If you only make it to five thrusts or less, promise me you’ll — Christ, keep laughing, who needs a vibrator when I have you?” he asks, grinning into Henry’s hair. He can't bring himself to mind that he isn’t currently being fucked through the mattress, not when Henry's snorting helplessly against his chest, not when he feels just as giddy himself about finally having Henry here.

He waits until the laughter has subsided, running his hands lazily along the length of Henry’s spine; at the base he pauses, kneading his fingers into the muscle of Henry’s ass, and Henry shivers, hips curling forward as much as Ben’s body will allow. “You’re lucky I love you,” Henry mumbles, teeth digging into Ben’s clavicle before he tips his head up for a kiss.

Ben hums, satisfied, and squeezes his thighs lightly around Henry’s waist. He is lucky, that much he knows.

The first thrust is a tentative one, a test to make sure that things will run smoothly, but Ben has a feeling that they won't have to worry about playing catchup — if Henry's slow, shaky breaths are any indication that he's as close to coming right off the bat as Ben is. Henry groans against his jaw and Ben curls his fingers against Henry's shoulder, digging in until he feels the muscle fibers slipping beneath his nails. He exhales slowly, the burn of Henry’s cock having already faded into a comfortable, painless stretch.

“Okay?” Henry asks quietly, and Ben responds with a low _uh huh_ , shifting his legs just a bit, swearing softly as Henry eases out and slides back in again.

They settle back into a familiar rhythm with ease, slow at first, Henry’s thrusts deep and sure; then they do the logical thing, which is to speed it up, because they both know that Henry only ever goes this slow when he’s making a real effort to drag things out, and Ben hasn’t exactly been subtle about trying to rub his cock against Henry’s abdomen with each roll of his hips. Ben tightens his thighs around Henry’s waist and groans low in his throat as Henry snaps his hips forward, arching to up meet each of his thrusts, pulling Henry as deep as he can even on the shallow strokes. This is just as good as slow, for them; Ben’s arousal flares sharply when Henry grips his hips and begins driving into him, and Henry certainly isn't laughing anymore, breath coming in sharp pants against the curve of Ben's neck as he tries to drive himself deeper. It’s not quite their usual languid reunion sex, nor is it exactly like the frantic, desperate fucking reserved for nights when time is not on their side. This falls somewhere in between, Ben's fingers slipping against Henry's back, his thighs burning with the effort of trying to keep Henry buried in him, messy kisses with swallowed groans and shaky curses.

Ben, unsurprisingly, comes first. He can feel his heart thundering in his chest, the pressure building at the base of his spine as Henry fucks into him, and he tries to grit out a warning while he shoves his hand down between Henry and himself. “Fuck, right there, I'm gonna…”

Henry sinks his teeth into Ben's left pectoral and Ben groans, hand moving quickly and desperately to close the last bit of space between himself and his orgasm; he'd hoped to wait for Henry to finish but this seems almost better, the sudden shuddering clench of his body intensifying every snap of Henry’s hips.

Then Henry drops onto his elbows, grits out a “Nope, can't,” and drives in with deep, jerky thrusts. Ben tries to pull him closer, still aroused enough to want Henry with every fraying fiber of his being. He claws at Henry's waist, his legs locked so tightly around his hips that he can feel them shaking, and finally Henry growls something guttural against Ben’s skin, fingers digging hard into Ben’s hips, a warmth spreading deep in the pit of Ben’s belly that makes him remember, belatedly and through the haze of his orgasm, that this time there won’t be a condom to tie off and throw in the trash.

“Fuck,” Ben says eloquently. Henry kisses him, a desperate, messy slide of mouths, his thrusts slowing until he breaks away to breathe hard against Ben’s chest.

Slowly, Ben releases his vice grip on Henry's waist. He groans, mostly at the stiffness in his hips and not because his cock is still trying desperately to stay in the game, and slides his arms up to curl loosely around Henry's shoulders, smearing a wet palm carelessly over Henry’s skin. He nuzzles into damp hair and presses his lips against Henry's temple, then against his mouth, swallowing the moan that rises softly in Henry's throat until they have to break apart again. Henry kisses down the side of his jaw, rubbing against him so that his beard scratches against Ben’s own, and Ben tips his head back, eyes slipping shut, one foot rubbing lazily against Henry's calf. 

They spend a minute or two catching their breath, and Ben is the first to initiate movement once his heart rate reaches a manageable pace. He would be perfectly happy to stay here with Henry's soft cock in him for the foreseeable future, but his legs are starting to cramp, and he thinks Henry might be starting to fall asleep on him, having apparently given up on rubbing a scruffy cheek against skin that's already reddened and warm from exertion. 

“Let me up,” he says against the top of Henry's scalp. Henry responds with a faint grunt of displeasure and pushes himself up, cock slipping out wetly as he sits back on his knees and makes a face at the drying mess on his stomach. Ben makes a very small, almost non-existent effort to not stare at his glistening abs, but it's hard for him to ignore beautiful things, especially when beautiful things are right in front of him and are covered in sweat and lube and semen. 

If Henry notices or cares that he's being ogled, he doesn't comment on it. Instead, when he glances back at Ben, his eyes slide down to where Ben's thighs are still lazily parted. Loose-limbed and sated, Ben isn’t especially interested in making any grand, energy-consuming gestures, but he can't remember the last time Henry watching him didn't send a shiver down his spine, so he does what any self-respecting man would do and spreads his legs further. 

Henry wets his lips and watches a trickle of something warm make its way down the crease of Ben's ass. The leaking feeling isn't especially pleasant, but Ben doesn't think he has any right to complain about the bed that he's made at this point. It’s not as if he didn’t know.

“Are you thinking about it?” Ben asks, his throat still dry, his voice rough. He watches Henry's eyes flicker up to meet his gaze, then back down again; if Ben has any chance of getting hard again within the next thirty minutes, he thinks it will be this look that does the trick. Then again, he’s managed to achieve at least a half dozen memorable erectile miracles in the time that they've been together, so one wouldn’t be quite out of place here. Henry's a devilishly persuasive man. It’s not out of the question just yet.

Henry traces the pad of his thumb over the sticky skin of Ben's inner thigh, glancing up through his lashes as he presses down. His thumb slips inside with ease and Ben inhales slowly, his body clenching around Henry’s thumb instinctively, oversensitive and twitching under Henry’s touch and still impossibly greedy for more. Most days he knows that Henry’s playfulness and curiosity are more a blessing than a curse, but some days he thinks Henry might just kill him.

“Yeah, I am,” Henry concedes at last. He presses in deeper and rotates his wrist, thumb hooking upward just beyond the clench of muscle, rubbing slowly back and forth inside him. Before Ben can open his mouth to respond, he adds, “Can you feel that?”

Mostly Ben just feels wet and filthy on the inside, which isn't a new sensation by any means, but he does feel another hot trickle when Henry removes his thumb. Distantly, he thinks that it might be nicer to just let Henry hold him open and watch his come drip down and stain the sheets. The thought of it makes him tremble. He can feel his muscles fluttering beneath Henry's fingers. 

“I just think it would be... a waste of a good opportunity,” Ben says slowly, by which he means that he wants to spend the rest of his life riding Henry’s tongue. It’s not as if he’s interested in walking straight tomorrow, anyway.

This time Henry presses two experimental fingers into him, making a thoughtful sound as Ben inhales. “I dunno if you can handle it,” Henry says mildly. He curls his fingers and Ben swears, fingers curling in the sheets.

If he were a smart man, he’d call it a night. He’s sore already, his skin hypersensitive from stimulation, the flesh reddened and warm between his thighs. If he were a smart man, Ben would roll over and let Henry clean him with a warm cloth and then try to catch up on his sleep, or at least spend a few minutes preparing himself for tomorrow’s departure.

He hooks a calf over Henry’s shoulder instead, fingers slipping into Henry’s hair as Henry leans down, a smug grin tugging at his lips.

 

Ben manages to wake before his alarm, his yawn turning into a noise of protest when his fingers brush over the cooling space on the mattress. He crawls out of bed gingerly and follows the sound of running water to the bathroom, squinting against the light as he curls his arms around Henry’s bare waist. His height allows him to rest his chin easily on Henry's shoulder, the rest of him fitting neatly along the curve of Henry's back when he presses in close, as if the concavities of his spine and the shallow dips just above Henry's clavicles were made for Ben only. 

“Hello,” Henry says, his voice soft, hopelessly fond even in the early hours of the morning. “Come to stop me?”

He’s still lathered up white with shaving cream all the way down to his throat. Ben isn't yet articulate, his body still used to being eight hours in the past, but as he nuzzles at the hinge of Henry's jaw and grunts his agreement he thinks that Henry may just be right. Even Jesus would've risen a day early to prevent a tragedy like this. He's only doing his duty, after all.

“Had to let go eventually, I guess,” he mumbles. Henry catches his gaze in the mirror for a brief moment, tilting his head until they're resting against one another. He makes a face, something sympathetic and apologetic and every other -etic that Ben needs in this trying time, and squeezes one of the hands wrapped around his waist, thumb rubbing slowly over the bare skin of Ben's fingers. Ben closes his eyes.

“I'll make it up to you, yeah? A good traditional breakfast and another hour in bed?”

“A full English breakfast might kill me,” Ben replies. His mind is starting to conjure up some fascinating thoughts about eggs and baked beans, and he’s pretty sure Henry has actually downright refused to try that one out at least once before. He yawns again, muffling it against Henry’s skin. “Besides, the French won't forgive me for what I'm gonna do to their toilets. This is a peaceful trip, I have to show diplomacy.”

Henry shakes with quiet laughter under him and Ben smiles to himself, cracking open an eye to catch the reflection of Henry's broad grin and crinkled eyes, so eye-wateringly radiant that he might as well be looking into the sun. He nuzzles into the curve of Henry’s neck, both eyes shut again only briefly, hoping to keep the image burned onto his retinas forever.

“Comment est votre français de nos jours?” Henry asks. Ben groans quietly just behind his ear; he isn't awake enough for Henry's casual bilingualism on the best of days, and between the sound of French vowels rolling off Henry's tongue and the way Henry's smooth jawline is taunting him in the mirror, his cock is having a fair bit of trouble deciding what it wants to do. 

Henry doesn't seem to have noticed the difference. He gives Ben another fond look before holding up his razor where Ben can see it. “You go start the shower and I'll join you when I'm done. We can take care of _that_ properly,” he adds, mischievous, and it takes all of Ben's extraordinarily well-developed willpower to peel himself away and limp to the other side of the bathroom. This is already too much distance between them, he decides, the closed curtain as good as a continental divide; he aches when he thinks of leaving again so soon, but they both know that the minute Ben arrives in London again they'll find themselves back here, sprawled out on Henry's couch or across his bed or maybe even on the kitchen table, no longer aching, no longer alone. 

When Henry finally draws back the curtain and steps under the spray with him, woefully clean-shaven and more than willing to make up for the injustice of it with his hands, Ben curls his hands over the bones of his hips, licking the warm water from the curve of Henry’s jaw. Henry goes without complaint, letting Ben lead him backward in a smooth glide until his back hits the tile, a dance that ends in Henry’s fingers curled over his own, Henry’s tongue pressing the soft syllables of _je t’aime_ into his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Note one: I think it's pretty much confirmed that we'll see our good friend Superman back again in JL, if the freshly-shaven pics of Henry are anything to go by. as it happens, he ended up [getting rid of the beard](https://twitter.com/HenryCavillNews/status/727567463873810432) the day after I started writing this. I'm still in mourning.
> 
> Note two: the _courante_ is a French court dance (from _courir_ , to run) which usually involved a 'wooing' advance-and-retreat motion, a sort of upbeat ebb and flow with gliding steps. what I found especially interesting about it is that despite having a quicker pace it has often been described as a more grave and majestic piece, even [serious](http://www.classiccat.net/genres/courante.info.php#cite_note-7), yet Johann Mattheson [described the movements of the courante](http://www.classiccat.net/genres/courante.info.php#cite_note-6) as being "chiefly characterized by the passion or mood of sweet expectation (...) something heartfelt, something longing and also gratifying (...) clearly music on which hopes are built." there is some similar gravity to this, I think, although it was never exactly meant to be heavy or take itself too seriously (since it started out with bearded rimming and sort of evolved from there), but I do sometimes find that imagining a relationship like this as a dance adds some small bit of majesty to it.
> 
> Note three: does this fit in with the other fics I've posted? possibly. it's a little bit different and I think it works just fine as a standalone piece, but it could certainly belong to that verse. either way, this is one of my personal favourites.
> 
> last but not least: thanks as always to Ashley, to [Shannon](http://elliotalderson.tumblr.com/), and to [brodinsons](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined), all of whom are wonderfully tolerant of every single picture of Ben's grey hair that I send them.


End file.
